Frankly, my dear . . .

I am a hopeless romantic.

I love love stories. I can't stand unhappy endings, except for Gone With the Wind. You know that part in The Runaway Bride, where Richard Gere says, "You want a guy who will wake you up at dawn, just bursting to talk to you, can't wait another minute to find out what you'll say"? Richare Gere makes me gag ever since I watched First Knight, but I still sigh wistfully at that part. So. A romantic.

I'm a hopeless romantic because I married a man who thinks my desires for cut flowers (they wilt and die), spontaneous dates (wouldn't you rather help pick where we go?), and sappy sentiments (. . . yeah) are inexplicable.

Despite my best efforts, I have to concede that Regis is just not a romantic guy. As far as I can tell, that gene got booted out of the family line generations ago.

However: Regis is also a smart man. He well knows that "Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point," usually translated as "If Mamma ain't happy, aint nobody happy."* So he asked me to explain romance to him. I invite you to try explaining romance sometime. It's challenging. But I think something clicked, because last week, when he called on his way home from work and heard that I was having a hard day, he stopped by the store to buy me a pretty bouquet of roses and lilies. He explained, "I was going to just hurry home to help you out, but then I realized that was the logical thing to do. So I stopped and got flowers instead!"

Is it possible to be logically illogical? At any rate, he works hard to keep me happy. And what's more romantic than that?



*Blaise Pascal is turning in his grave. So sorry.